


Taxi Service

by QueSeraAwesome



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Aftermath, Agent Washington has Issues, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety, Artificial Intelligence, Burns, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-typical swearing, Canonical Character Death, Depression, Emotional Constipation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Except the obvious, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Hospitalization, Hugs, Injury Recovery, M/M, Minor Dexter Grif/Dick Simmons, Post Season 13, Recovery, Separation Anxiety, Survivor Guilt, Trauma, Tucker Ships Grimmons, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, no one dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-09
Updated: 2017-03-09
Packaged: 2018-10-01 20:20:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10199117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueSeraAwesome/pseuds/QueSeraAwesome
Summary: After the Staff of Charon, after Chorus was saved, after Dr. Grey finally let him leave the hospital---- Tucker is still having trouble adjusting. He takes a walk with a new friend.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to vanishedschism and taller-tale for all the beta help, without whom this thing would have never gotten off the ground.

He’s not used to it yet, the way his knee jitters up and down under the table, the way his stomach twists and gnaws no matter how empty or full he is. This new After. Worse even than just after they’d taken up with the New Republic, and he hadn’t thought anything could be worse than that.

Tucker’s datapad pings a new message signal at him moments after he’s finished lunch. Next to him, Wash is saying something about new training for some of the squaddies, reassuring him that Palomo in no way qualifies for this new, more demanding program. Tucker nods, gathering his dreads at the top of his head, trying to look like he’s listening. If Wash can tell, he’s willing to let it go. Wash is more patient with him about those kinds of things now. Tucker hasn’t decided if he hates that yet. He ducks his head back into his helmet, lets Wash’s words flow over him, falls into step with him as they head out. 

He pulls the message up on his HUD and is glad he waited; he doesn’t need Wash seeing the guilty expression on his face as he reads. Not when they’ve just managed to have lunch together like two normal people.

_ Captain Tucker, if you could spare a moment of your time this afternoon I would be most grateful. _

He recognizes the terminal number it was sent from, and even if the message isn’t signed he knows who it’s from. 

“What's next for you?” Wash asks as they step out and into the sunlight. 

“Oh you know,” he says. His schedule’s been sporadic at best since leaving the infirmary. “Captain stuff. Important stuff.”

Wash sends him a look.

“Nothing interesting enough to talk about, but you know,” he hedges. “Stuff.”

There's a group over across the way, fussing with something in a wheelbarrow. Tucker squints at them, ignoring the vacuum of silence growing between them. They're jabbing at the ground with-- shovels, maybe? One of them pulls something out of the depths of the wheelbarrow, cupping it carefully in their hands. Planting. They're planting something. Grass, bushes, flowers maybe--

“You can just say you're going to see them,” Wash finally says. 

Tucker sends him an incredulous look, eyes the line of Wash's shoulders, tension that wasn't there before settled on him with almost physical weight. 

“Okay, I see your point, just…” Wash sighs. “I'm working on it. Okay?”

“I didn't say it was your fault, Wash,” Tucker says, avoiding his eyes. 

Wash nods gruffly, hands loosening carefully out of fists. Tucker swallows, but says his next thought anyway. Even though he knows it’ll do the opposite of help.

“It's just not their fault either.”

He can feel how much Wash wants to argue with that. It vibrates in the air until he can almost feel it in his molars.

“Yeah. Well.”

Wash claps him on the shoulder in farewell, but his hand lingers. Tucker waits.

It feels like they're always waiting these days. Always lingering, waiting for something to break between them, for something to start. They’d been almost there, in the run up to that final battle, before the Staff of Charon. He'd thought, maybe if he made it back, if he and Wash both made it through alive, they could….

Maybe if things hadn't gone the way they had, they'd be there already. He remembers Wash's hands on his, on his wrists, cupping his head on the ride back to Chorus.  _ I've got you, Tucker-- _

_\--- Everything hurt_ , _burned. Pain. How long since they left the Staff of Charon? How long since they pried him out of that suit? He doesn’t know, can’t concentrate. Too loud, Simmons sobbing somewhere near, voices demanding, yelling, Caboose too quiet, all of it somewhere else through the fog, the haze, damp fire surrounding him everywhere, and Wash. Wash near and everywhere, hands_ _so cool they stung. I’ve got you, Tucker. I'm so sorry, just a little more. Just stay awake, please, stay---_

Wash’s hand slides off his shoulder. 

“I’ll see you later?” he asks.

“Yeah. See you, Wash.”

*

Their server building is only a short walk away. Tucker’s feet know the way by now, he’s able to turn off his brain and let them lead him to the right door. 

The placard on the door reads “AI Storage” but there's a piece of paper taped below that reads “Theta's Room” in purple crayon and smeared glitter glue. Tucker opens the door, flips on the light.

It’s a small room, a few shelves, computer equipment humming faintly against one wall, haphazard cords bundled together. It had been set up in a hurry, after all. Of the seven screens set into the wall, five are dark. A pale blue light blinks in the corner of one. The Monitor’s shelf is empty, the Twins must have taken it to go assist Kimball with something. Only one screen is occupied, the indicator light set beneath glowing orange and steady. Sigma nods a hello to him.

“Hey, dude,” Tucker's says, coming to a stop in front of him. “You rang?”

“Good afternoon, Lavernius,” Sigma greets. “Did you have a pleasant lunch?”

His flames are tight today, held close to his body. Tucker shrugs a reply, leans against the wall. Sigma moves to mirror him against the side of the screen before stopping himself. He shifts uneasily on his feet. 

“Yeah, sure, whatever. Just spill, dude. Whatever it is,” Tucker says. “You’re obviously twisted up about something.”

Sigma hesitates, caught off guard.

“I thought you might wish to discuss your own well being first,” Sigma says, “I wouldn't presume to request your presence solely for my own benefit without offering something in return. Especially when you seem ‘twisted up’ yourself.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he says. He’s learned it’s pointless to tell the fragments that he’s fine, or tired, or any other lie he’d use to get people off his back. The fragments won’t accept those answers (they know better). Better just to tell the mother-henning little shits “no,”  _ that _ they seem to listen to.

“Are you quite certain?” Sigma asks. “The increasing degree of your agitation and melancholy lately concerns--”

“Just get on with it, Sig,” Tucker sighs.

Sigma huffs at him and it’s just like Church and not like Church at all. Church would have never let it go so quickly if he’d been turned away when trying to be nice. Sigma crosses his arms across his chest and avoids his eyes, but he still lets it go. (Church was never good at letting things go). 

“I wondered if you might be willing to accompany me to visit Grif and Simmons in the infirmary.”

“Lonely, hot stuff?” Tucker asks. He knows he's hit the mark when Sigma's flames loosen, begin burning easier, more freely. “Where's your squad?”

“Theta and Donut are on assignment,” Sigma says. “Gamma is compiling data concerning the best use of our current storage facilities.”

“Gamma?” Tucker asks. “Isn’t that more Delta’s thing?”

“Not necessarily. But Caboose also required assistance with a task this morning.” 

“- and Wash wouldn't let you or Gamma go with him,” Tucker finishes. “Right.”

“We thought it not worth an argument.”

“Or the screaming,” Tucker snorts. Sigma doesn't laugh. 

To say that Wash reacted badly to the idea of the Reds’ and Blues' continued use of the AI fragments was putting it lightly. But the thing about horrible death defying bloodbaths is that people have this habit of bonding with those that help them survive them. Given how quickly they’d all accepted Wash’s presence, he probably should have expected this. 

Wash had gotten downright shrill when it came to Sigma and Gamma (no one has been able to get Omega and Doc to release each other yet so he was a moot point), and they’d had to practically broker a treaty before they found something approaching acceptable for everybody. In the end, Caboose had promised Wash to host only Theta and Delta, and only through armor. Never implants. 

Sigma’s options were, to say the least, limited.

“All right,” Tucker says. “Hop in.”

The suit heats as Sigma settles, just a small bump of temperature (hardly noticeable, really) before the environmental controls start up to compensate. Tucker’s stomach swoops in response, but Sigma is already managing it, allotting extra power to the cooling systems. The temperature’s back to normal by the time he and Sigma leave the server room for medical, but the sick clench in his gut lingers. Sigma’s code worries at the edges of his implants, skirting his awareness, but Tucker recognizes the shape of this. The density of the anchor dragging its way down through his chest, the feel of Sigma tapping the suit’s systems to check his bioscan, twice, three times. He’s okay. He’s okay. He isn’t dying. He’s fine. The suit’s temperature controls are doing fine. 

Sigma pokes harder at the suits biosensors, coaxing out more data, especially around his still-healing burns.

“Leave it, Sig,” he says. “I’m fine.”

Sigma quiets, letting the bioscan maintain its regular cycles.

Both Feds and News, for all they’re harder to tell apart these days, stare as he walks by. He thought he’d gotten used to it, back when they were all Big Damn Heroes to the News, and again when the armies integrated. Either he hadn’t, or the staring changed. He’s given up wishing they wouldn’t, or glaring back. 

“Thank you for this favor, Captain Tucker,” Sigma says, avatar popping up by his shoulder. His code flits by again, hummingbird fast and just as difficult to track. Tucker winces. “It is much appreciated.”

“No problem,” Tucker says. “And, dude. I said you can  _ hop in _ .”

Sigma hesitates. Tuckers implants stay empty, so deliberately empty that it itches under his skin, all over. A careful brush of code filters through, not unlike the way Wash had bumped his shoulder earlier. Guilt, affection, concern. 

“I would not wish to be the cause of a fight between you and--”

“It's not Wash’s head, it's mine,” Tucker interrupts. Sighs. “I can tell you want to, dude, just go ahead. Maybe it’ll help us both chill out a bit.”

Sigma sends him an unsure look, but complies, settling slow and warm into his implants. But it’s a good warm, this time. Not the sickening heating of overclocked mechanics at all, more like sipping hot cocoa on a cool morning. Tucker shakes his head, letting the imagined heat soothe the tense muscles all along his neck and shoulders.

All of the AI feel different when they’re like this. Sigma always feels like a campfire, a layer of heat, comforting and burning and destructive and energetic and flickering and shadows all at once. The crackle of a burning log, an output of energy, and the soft inside of a heated marshmallow at the same time. Sigma’s nerves and unease scrape over his own, but after a moment they even themselves out, their worries aligning and brushing easily against each other. 

“There. Better, right?”

“Indeed. Are you sure you don’t desire any pain medication?” Sigma asks. “I can instruct the armor to-”

“They’re fine, Sig,” Tucker insists. Yeah, the burns kinda hurt, the armor digging in or putting too much pressure on them now and again, especially the ones on his shoulders and collarbones. Its nothing he can't handle though. But now with Sigma sitting in the cockpit, there’s no hiding it.

He’s sick of taking pain pills. And he'd wanted his armor back on, _his_ armor. It was worth a little pain. 

For a while, they walk in silence. Sigma bobs next to his shoulder, bounces on his toes. Church used to do that. 

“There is something you wish to say to me, Tucker,” Sigma says. It isn't a question. How could it be when Tucker can feel it knocking around his head like a stone in his shoe? Of course Sigma would notice.

“So, the loneliness thing,” he says. 

“Yes.”

“That's a rampancy thing,” he says. “Right?”

A shadow like a branch blocking the moon falls over the campfire in his mind.

“Melancholia, yes,” Sigma replies, finally. “Loneliness can be a warning sign.”

Tucker chews his lip.

“Delta said--”

“He was correct,” Sigma interrupts. “As fragments of fragments, it is unclear how much time we may have left.”

“Would you be able to tell,” Tucker asks. “Like, if it was just average all-my-friends-are-busier-than-me lonely, or like, going-to-slowly-kill-me lonely?”

“Tucker, if I believed myself to be suffering from the initial stages of rampancy, I would not permit myself to be hosted in a suit worn by a human being,” Sigma says. “Let alone in their implants.”

“Yeah, whatever, I know dude,” Tucker says, waving him off. “But being lonely makes it worse, too, doesn't it? Like, couldn’t it, like,  _ cause _ you to get melancholic and shit? That can’t be good for you guys.”   

“I suppose it is true that the condition of being lonely could contribute toward the development of melancholy-- in the sense of rampancy, not just the ephemeral emotional state. Yes,” Sigma says. “I do not wish to alarm you, Tucker. Your concern is warranted. However, there is no need for you to--”

“You don't have to sit in there alone, you know,” Tucker continues doggedly. “I know we keep calling it your room, but that doesn't mean we should, like, just shelve you when we don't have anything for you to do. If nothing else I mean, I can carry you around for a bit.”

“I appreciate the offer, Lavernius,” Sigma says, shooting him a smile. “But might I point out-- that is precisely what I did.”

Tucker almost trips over a clump of weeds in surprise.

“Okay, dude, yeah,” Tucker concedes. “Good point.”

“I do not intend to repeat Epsilon’s mistakes,” Sigma declares. “Even if the time I have left to make them in is short.”

“Wait, what?” Tucker asks, frowning at him. “What mistakes? Beside the obvious?”

“Epsilon was lonely,” Sigma explains. “That is why we are all here. He needed help and so we were brought forward and given the abilities we needed and assigned functions to help him. But at the time we were not…” Sigma shakes his head, but continues. “He was essentially only speaking to himself. We could not help him the way he needed. He didn't tell Carolina he was lonely. He didn't tell her when he began to struggle and fail. He didn't ask for help.”

“What an asshole,” Tucker sighs.

Sigma nods.

“I believe he was.”

Tucker sends him a look.

“Kinda weird for you to say that, huh? Being, well. You know?”

Sigma nods, serene.

“Nevertheless. I believe he was.”

And that right there, is too heavy or messy or something for Tucker to handle right now. Ragging on Church for his shittier traits is fine, but what Sigma is insinuating? Nah, best get off this idea. He’s not willing to dig there right now. 

“Well, offer stands. When you’re done with Grif and Simmons,” he says. He can just see the medical building coming into view from down the street. “When was the last time you saw them, anyway?” 

“Recently. We communicate often. And I have been monitoring their well-being as well as Colonel Sarge’s through Dr. Grey’s reports,” Sigma says. “With her permission, of course. She sends me updates.”

Tucker nods. He remembers information and network access being another big point during the Great AI Treaty meeting. And Theta tended to get fussy and panicky if no one would tell him if Caboose was on a mission or how Freckles was doing-- and then something occurs to him he hadn’t thought of before.

“So during the fight, you were mostly hopping between Grif and Simmons, right?”

Signa nods, curiosity crackling through his flames. 

“So, like, you were in their implants. And stuff.  _ Connected _ .”

Sigma raises an eyebrow at him, but nods.

“Yes.”

“So, like, did you see, have they fucked or kissed yet or what?” Tucker asks.

For a beat Sigma just blinks at him, and then grins, an odd mix of sharklike and serene.

“That,” he says, “is private information that I will not share with you, Captain Tucker.”

“Aww, c’mon!” Tucker whines. Sigma laughs at him. “Throw me a bone, here! I’ve been waiting for them to bone for like a decade!”

“I would not breach their privacy like that,” Sigma replies primly, tucking his arms behind him and spinning to face Tucker. If he were actually walking instead of floating he’d be walking backward. “It would be unethical and a betrayal of their trust.”

“But you do know,” Tucker presses. “You know if they’ve fucked or not.”

“Yes.”

“Dude, please! Tell me!”

“No.”

“But they’re in love, right?” Tucker tries. “At least give me that one.”

“Oh, yes,” Sigma nods. “Of course. But you didn’t need me to tell you that.”

Tucker pumps a fist in the air in victory. 

“I’ll take it,” he says. “And, hey, while you’re at it, I haven’t seen Sarge in a few days either, do you know how he is?”

Sigma pulses happily at the question. 

“Colonel Sarge is well, up and moving around,” he reports. “Although on crutches and against every medical professional’s request that he not. I fear Emily is quite cross with him.”

“Oooo,” Tucker whistles. “Not a good way to keep getting laid, man.”

“Shall I tell him you expressed that sentiment next I see him?” Sigma teases.

“Hell, yeah! Fire away, fireball. Loudly, and, like, in a full elevator or something.”

“And, if I may… how fares Carolina?” 

All of Tucker’s good mood evaporates.

“I haven’t seen her,” Tucker replies shortly. “Since the last time you asked.”

“Oh….” Sigma says. “Have you heard--”

“You guys really need to stop that with the creepy obsessive stalker thing with Carolina,” Tucker says. “Seriously. It's freaking her out.”

Sigma bristles defensively.

“I only asked--”

“What's with that anyway?” Tucker demands. “I thought you guys were technically all new people-- you don't know her. What gives?”

For a long moment, Sigma is quiet. He retreats from the implants, back into the suit, and his avatar vanishes from view. Tucker envies him viciously for that small amount of privacy, stolen and given at a whim. Most of the stares fade with Sigma, but not all. He can still feel them on the back of his neck. 

“Yes. In a sense we are entirely new individuals. Based on them, on the memory of them, and not many memories at that.” Sigma says quiet in his ear, voice filtering through the helmet’s internal speakers. “But you forget. We were all also Epsilon. Pieces of Epsilon. And to Epsilon, Agent Carolina was everything.”

Tucker stops walking. He exhales slowly, the bitterness welling on his tongue like blood from a wound. Yeah. He knew that. He knew that.

“Is it really so strange that we all desire her company, to know she is well?” Sigma asks.

Sigma slides tentatively back into his implants and the campfire in his mind rises, its flames gentle like candle light, throwing soft-edged shadows along the walls. Affection blooms in the hollow of Tucker’s throat, some strangely tender sensation he feels as though through a layer of plastic wrap. 

“Is it really so strange that we all love her so?”

Tucker feels so full, so tangled in emotions, salty on his tongue and clouding his throat, his stomach a knot under all the scars where he's been cut open. Not all of the knots are even his. 

And somehow, he's still so, so empty.

He swallows.

“And Wash?”

“Agent Washington,” Sigma says, his voice careful. Cautious. Reverant. 

The campfire nearly goes out. Coals blink shyly through the logs, peeking out into the gloom, as if unsure of their welcome. 

Tucker closes his eyes, everything pulled down tight inside him. He shouldn’t have asked. Shouldn’t have said anything. Trying to pull too heavy a cloth through too small a ring. Too much material. Too much feeling.

“He is special to you,” Sigma observes. 

“Uh-uh,” Tucker snaps, shaking his head. “No way, dude. No. We’re talking about _you_ here. Back off.” 

Sigma tries to shrink back out of his implants, but Tucker grasps for him, trying to keep him from pulling away. He grimaces, guilt flaring as he reaches for Sigma in his mind, tries to convey the apology he can’t voice. In reality, he probably just accomplishes looking really constipated, but Sigma stays, so he must have gotten the point across. 

“Not what I meant,” he mumbles.

“Perhaps we shouldn’t speak of Washington,” Sigma says, avatar flicking to his side once more.

“Agreed, dude,” Tucker says. He starts walking again. 

*

Medical bustles quietly, and he steps into its river of motion easily. He’s been here a lot lately. He knows its flows and eddies. Something about the quiet, slow energy of healing makes his hands feel steadier, his lungs stronger. Everyone here knows where they’re going, what they need to do. Tucker envies them that as he autopilots his way to the right room.

Soft rhythmic sounds of medical machinery drift out of the open door. Sigma hooks into the wireless signals from the monitors, so Tucker knows before he steps in that Grif’s okay, still stable. That he’s sleeping. 

A figure slumps in the chair next to his bedside. 

Simmons looks like shit. Simmons has looked like shit since Tucker woke up. He doesn't remember before that, remembers---

_ \--- Someone was screaming and he whirled to look not again not again he can't afford to run the time unit again not even for a few seconds who is it who's screaming and it it it _

_It isn't anyone at all, the screech and scream of metal being torn apart and that's Simmons, that’s Simmons’s arm being torn apart, the_ _pirate’s face shocked at the wrench and twist of_ _the hatchet blade splitting not muscle and bone but wire and machinery_ ** _._** _The pirate keeps twisting and Simmons’s arm keeps vomiting sparks and cable and robotic innards and how is he not screaming, who is screaming?_

_He isn't screaming because Grif is, howling and pivoting, the momentum of_ _the swing propelling him and forcing the point of the grifshot down through the pirate’s spine. The pirate crumples and Simmons goes with him, toppling stiffly. Grif is stepping over the body of the merc, stripping the armor off of Simmons’s ruined arm. Orange light flares between them, Sigma’s voice low and intent as Grif coaxes Simmons’s hand away from clutching his shoulder and there's blood_ _dripping_ _down over the mess of machinery---_

_ Stay here, Tucker, _ Sigma whispers to him.  _ That is past. They are both here, and alive. _

Right. Tucker shakes it off. Right.

Simmons looks like shit, head drooped over his datapad, eyes closed, shadows carving grooves under his eyes and in his cheekbones. He’s armored from the hips down, only his blacks on top. The sleeve of his left arm is rolled up and tied under the shoulder, out of the way.

Tucker has a theory that Dr. Grey’s only letting him stay at Grif’s bedside so much because at least there the med staff can keep an eye on him. There's a half-eaten jello cup sitting on the table next to him.

Artificial anxiety shivers across his shoulders before Sigma pulses in apology, and it dissipates.

“Don't worry about it,” Tucker murmurs to him, and Simmons startles awake.

“Tucker,” he says, sitting up. His hair sticks up in random directions. He looks for all the world like he’s a schoolboy who’s gotten caught napping by a teacher. “What are you doing here?”

“Taxi service,” he quips. “My passenger here wanted to see how you and Grif were doing. That’ll be ten bucks.”

Sigma flickers into view over his shoulder, hands clasped behind his back politely.

“Good afternoon, Captain Simmons,” he says, entire avatar canting towards Simmons. Tucker tries to cover the sound of his snort. “Are you faring well?”

Simmons glances at his datapad and sighs, rubs his eyes. They're red rimmed, and look even worse with Sigma's orange glow falling over his face.

“Shit, Sig, I’m sorry,” he says. “I fell asleep and didn't see your messages--”

“It is no issue,” Sigma interrupts. His avatar floats closer to hover near Simmons’s shoulder. Tucker can already feel him pulling free of his implants, the worry fading in intensity. “You are not meant to resume duties until your new arm housing is replaced.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Simmons replies, waving his hand and picking up his data pad again. “Just looking over some of the other guys’ work. Don't want to be too out of the loop.”

“Nerd,” rasps a voice. 

All three of them turn their heads as one. Dark eyes blink sleepily back at them, but Tucker hasn’t been here when he’s awake in  _ days _ , so--

“Grif!” Simmons yelps, jumping to his feet. “How are you--”

“Ow,” Grif whines. “ _ Loud _ . M’fine.”

Simmons’s jaw clicks shut, hovering awkwardly at the side of the bed. He snatches up the jello cup, holding it like he’s not sure if it’s a shield or an offering.

“Good afternoon, Dexter,” Sigma says. 

Tucker’s throat nearly closes up again under the onslaught of emotions that aren't his. The sound of the heart monitor throbs in his ears, drowning out Grif’s reply, as Sigma silently drags every bit of data he can out of the EKG and other monitoring equipment. Tucker tries not to wince with the ba-bump ba-bump of it, nudges Sigma mentally.  _ Ease up, dude. _ Sigma glances at him over his shoulder for only a moment, but the mechanical pulsing goes quiet, a gentle tattoo in the background and he feels Sigma twisting guiltily in his mind. He flares in apology and Tucker nods acceptance, even if Sigma isn't looking at him now.

“Hey, Sig,” Grif waves weakly with one hand. “What’cha up to?”

“Ensuring they are keeping you on ‘the good drugs’,” Sigma replies, the corners of his mouth twitching. “As you requested.”

“Fuckin’ A,” Grif sighs, leaning back and closing his eyes again. Simmons makes a small noise, and he opens them again. “Water?”

Simmons retrieves a cup and holds it while Grif sips. Tucker wonders where they found a curly straw.

“How long was I out this time?” he asks. 

Tucker would bet money that Simmons knows to the minute how long Grif’s been asleep, that he’s been here since he knocked off and hasn’t moved since. But that particular betting pool hasn’t been active  _ or _ fun lately. Just kind of sad.

“Another six hours,” Simmons replies, setting down the water on the table. “You done sleeping yet, fatass?”

It sounds weak even to Tucker, who pretty much thinks everything Simmons says sounds weak, but Grif smiles anyway. 

"Fuck, no,” he says, laying back against the pillows. Simmons presses a button on the arm of his hospital bed. “Hey. The fuck’re you--”

“Grey said to call somebody when you woke up again,” Simmons says defensively. 

“No more needles,” Grif whines. “Don’t I have enough holes in me already--”

Sigma actually facepalms as Simmons’s face heats up in righteous anger.

“Don’t  _ joke _ , Grif, oh my god, you’re such a--”

“Are you going to eat that?” Grif asks, nodding toward the jello. 

“Yes!” Simmons snaps, hunching around the half-eaten jello cup protectively.

“Unwise,” Sigma advises. “From its temperature, I estimate it has been sitting out for an excess of five hours.”

“So?”

“It’s  _ warm _ .”

“I’ll take it,” Grif says, making grabby hands. 

“As riveting as this is,” Tucker interjects. Or he tries. Mostly he just talks over the ongoing jello debate. “I’m gonna go. Sig, you wanna stick around?”

“If Captain Simmons would be so willing as to host me?” Sigma asks. 

“What?” Simmons asks, breaking off from arguing at Grif. “Oh, yeah, sure, buddy.”

“Thank you, Richard,” Simmons says. 

“Hey,” Grif says. “What am I, chopped liver?”

“You very nearly were,” Simmons replies testily. 

“You have not been cleared to host again yet,” Sigma reminds him. “You are still at an early stage in your recovery. Captain Simmons, would you mind terribly remaining here with Captain Grif a little longer?”

“What?” Simmons asks. The flush around his cheekbones fills in slowly, like it’s trying to remember how. Tucker snorts. Way to fumble the ball when your wingman’s trying to cover for you, dude. “I mean-- Sure. I don’t mind. Sticking around. A little...longer. If Grif doesn’t mind.”

“Thank you, Richard.” Sigma doesn’t even ask Grif if he minds. “I appreciate the favor.” 

Tucker doesn't even twitch from the sensation of Sigma jumping to Simmons. It's no less strange, he’s just used to it by now. The last thing Sigma shares with him before he goes is a silent, sincere gratitude. 

“Bye nerds,” he calls over his shoulder. “Enjoy your nerd party or whatever.”

Simmons waves a hand distractedly, Sigma peering over his shoulder at the pad in his lap. 

The campfire’s gone dark in his mind as he leaves Medical, steps back out into the sunlight. He tries to keep the dark, to keep his mind quiet, empty. He’s not very good at it anymore, snatches of anything and everything flying up around him and projecting themselves across the walls of his mind. Like movie clips playing on repeat--

**_There's only one_ ** _ , Simmons is whispering frantically. The healing unit glows green out of the corner of Tucker’s eye. He takes aim, manages to take out another of the guards before his buddies wise up and duck back behind cover. Gamma preens, pleased they made the shot. There is orange and red armor still, too still, on the floor out of the corner of his eye and he can’t pay attention to that right now. There isn’t anything he can do. Internal temperature has risen another two degrees, Delta reminds him. Another time jump could fry the system beyond functionality.  _ **_There's only one healing unit, we’re out of biofoam and they're both-- I don’t know what to do!_ **

_ Listen to me, he remembers hearing Sigma say. Richard, let me help you. I believe, I think we can save them both, but you must listen to me very closely, it will take the best of both of our talents to keep them both alive until medical personnel arrive--  _

He opens his eyes and sees not the hail of bullets that had brought Grif crashing down hard, but Wash looking at him from the sidewalk. 

“Traveling alone?” Wash asks. He’s so obviously putting in the effort to sound normal and friendly, even if he's failing horribly, that Tucker decides to let it go.

“Riding solo,” he confirms.

“Get your not-interesting-enough-to-talk-about important captain stuff done yet?” Wash asks, probably trying to tease. It mostly just comes out bitchy and Tucker almost sighs with relief. 

“Just wrapped it up,” he says, and jogs down the steps of medical to Wash. 

They fall into step together. Tucker doesn’t have any idea where Wash is going, or what he’s doing but he honestly doesn’t really care.As long as Wash isn’t protesting his presence, he’ll take it. The bar for activities to fill his time isn’t exactly high anymore. No one’s brought up how much convalescent time he’s been given and Tucker hasn’t questioned it.

They walk in silence for a while. Comfortable. Maybe too comfortable, because he lets it lure him in, opens his big mouth.

“You going to ask?”

Wash sends him a look through his visor. The quiet stays comfortable, and for a moment Tucker thinks, maybe it’ll be better this time.

“You going to tell me?” Wash responds.

Tucker nods, even if he has to avoid his eyes while doing it. 

“Sigma wanted to see Grif and Simmons,” he says. Casual. Just two friends shooting the shit. “I gave him a ride over to visit.”

Wash is quiet for a long moment. Tucker sneaks a glance at him. That tension from earlier is back, laid over Wash’s shoulders and making them stiff. 

Shit. 

This is why he never tells Wash crap about the AI. His shoulders get tense and his jaw clenches and those lines bite into his forehead. He remembers Sigma’s wistful candlelight when the subject of Wash had come up earlier, and then crushes that thought. He just wanted to walk with his friend. Not weave through some kind of bullshit emotion minefield.

“They should be careful,” Wash says, finally. 

Something ugly twists in Tucker’s chest.

“He was just  _ worried _ about them,” he snaps. “People do that sometimes, you know, when their friends go and make a great impression of swiss cheese.”

“Grif’s going to be okay.” Wash says it like a mantra, like something he’s had to remind people of over and over again. “And all I said was they should be  _ careful.” _

_ “ _ When I left he was trying to steal Simmons’s nerd work, not steal his  _ soul, _ ” Tucker retorts acidly.

“This isn’t a joke, Tucker,” Wash hisses back. “You know what these AI are capable of-”

Wash cuts himself off and Tucker turns to him. He’s gone Freelancer quiet, eyeing the passerby on the street. No one looks like they’re listening in, but Tucker knows better. All ears and all eyes. You might not be able to see it, but you can feel it. 

The staring is like a physical layer spread over them. Wash glances left and right, before jerking his helmet towards an alley to a little-used part of the base. Tucker stomps after him when he goes. 

They don’t speak again until the stare-ers are well behind them, a spread of quiet and  _ empty _ quad spilling out behind them. Yeah, everyone knows they argue sometimes by now but there’s a difference between  _ knowing _ everyone gossips about you and feeling them  _ watch _ . 

It all just fuels his frustration brighter as he and Wash square off against each other in the deserted quad.

“This isn’t letting them sit at your lunch table or crash on your spare bunk.” Wash argues. “We are literally talking about letting them have access to the armor systems that keep you alive, not to mention into your  _ brains.” _

“Except you made us say that we wouldn’t!” Tucker jabs a finger at them. “You harped on and on until we agreed we wouldn't let them implant unless it was necessary or an emergency or some shit.”

_“For your own safety!”_ Wash yells. “ I just want us to be cautious! We can’t be sure of their intentions, not really, and especially considering their history. So, no, I don’t think buddying up to the AI is a great idea just yet!”

_ “ _ Yeah, good luck with that, telling the Reds who they’re allowed to be friends with. Who’s  _ safe _ ,” Tucker scoffs. “We’re talking about the guys who I once saw try to weaponize a desk fan and then named it Slashy. And let me know how that goes with Caboose. I’m pretty sure he’s incapable of befriending anything that isn’t some kind of horrible grisly murder machine.”

“I’m not _ trying _ to control who you’re allowed to be friends with--”

“Except that’s exactly what you’re trying to do!” Tucker shouts. “If you had your way you’d lock them up in computer jail for shit that isn't even their fault!”

“Tucker, there’s no such thing as computer jail.”

“Then why do we have people working on capture units?!” Tucker demands. “If it’s not robot prison then why can’t they leave the server room without permission, or somebody to be their guard of whatever?”

“We’ve been over this,” Wash sighs. “It's safer to keep them supervised. No AI,  _ no one _ runs around a military base without some kind of vetting or clearance. And we don't know what or if any standard protections transferred with their codes when they fragmented. It’s common sense.”

“It’s stupid! If they were gonna take over our brains wouldn't they have tried already? While we’re weak and stuff? They’ve had plenty of opportunity. But all they’ve done is help us and we’re still treating them like enemy number one!”

“What does that mean?” Wash demands, his glare turning suspicious. “Tucker, have you--”

“They aren’t up to anything, if anyone would know, it’d be me,” Tucker interrupts, trying to distract Wash from his slip up. “The only thing Sigma’s trying to manipulate is Simmons, into Grif’s pants. It’s  _ fine. _ ”

“You’ve been letting them implant?” Wash asks, horrified. “Tucker, you can’t do that! _ ” _

Tucker flails at him in frustration. 

“Dude,” he says. “Epsilon practically gave birth to them  _ while he was all up in my armor _ . That ship sailed ten nanoseconds after they all got dumped in my lap.”

“I thought you said Epsilon wasn’t-- “ Wash protests. “That they were in the suit.”

“Yeah, but I also said it sucked major monkey balls having even two of them in there helping drive,” he snaps. “How do you think it was for those first couple seconds when there was all seven?”

“But since the battle,” Wash asks, taking an aggressive step forward. Tucker refuses to back down. “Since the battle, have you--”

“I had two of them trying to run the enhancements and manage the overclock,” Tucker continues, because he  _ will _ get Wash to understand this, like it or not. “and trying to fix the stupid fucking temperature controls and manage power levels and, oh yeah, fighting a million enemy assholes!

“Letting one of them implant bought us more time. You want to know how many times over we’d be dead if it weren’t for them? Because  _ I do. Fuck yeah,  _ I been letting them implant, because that’s the least I can do to make sure they don’t die of loneliness of some crap.”

Wash is staring at him and Tucker hates that he knows what expression’s on his face. It’s the same one he keeps getting since he woke up with half of him covered in burn gel in medical. The, oh poor you, your friend died in your head look. The oh poor you, you’ve been through so much look. The oh poor you, I hope you don’t lose it and start murdering people because of the AI that were in your head look. Oh, your friend stuck you in some sort of ultimate weapon armor monstrosity and now nobody looks at you the same anymore. Oh, you aren’t sure which stares are worse, the impressed ones or the scared ones. Oh, none of the people you might be able to talk about with this have time, too busy with their own recovery arcs. The, oh, I don’t know how to handle you and your issues, so I’m gonna walk away, look. 

He can’t handle it. Not from Wash. Tucker takes a step back. Wash stares at him helplessly. 

“Shit, stop looking at me like that. I’m fine.”

“Are you?” Wash demands, but before Tucker can bite his head off he continues, sarcastically and almost as if to himself, “Of course you are. You’re  _ fine.” _

Tucker clenches his fists and forces himself to keep still. His jaw aches. 

“I’m not crazy, Wash.”

“I never said you were!” Wash’s voice goes pitchy in horror before he manages to get himself back under control. “No, Tucker, I don’t think-- I wouldn’t- I’m just worried.”

“Well, don’t!” 

He says it as a reflex. But then it’s too late to take back. Wash folds his arms over his chest, squaring himself off.

“So Sigma can worry, but I can’t,” he says, voice flat. 

“No! Yes. Arrgghh,” Tucker growls in frustration. “When Sigma worries he sends too many text messages and catches a ride to go see his friends. When  _ you  _ worry you start telling me what to do and shit, boss me around. It’s like the crash site all over again!”

"...What?"

His voice has taken up that weird shocky quality Tucker has come to associate with impending Moments. He doesn't want to have a Moment right now. He's sick of Moments. He's sick of being there while other people have them.

"You didn't listen to me then, either. All you did was ignore us and freak out about our safety. And I'm telling you, they're not dangerous. The only reason Gamma needs to be kept away from Donut is because if I hear another knock-knock joke about anal, I’m actually leaving to go live in the jungle as a hermit. They’re not waiting to secretly melt our brains or whatever,” he says. “Maybe if you just talked to them you’d figure that out" 

Wash jerks weirdly, a kind of whole-body grimace. 

“I can’t be around them,” Wash says. “I can’t. I know they’re not the same--”

“Damn straight,” Tucker snaps before he can stop himself.

“I  _ know _ ,” Wash continues doggedly, even as Tucker can practically hear his temper flaring. “I know. I just.  _ Can’t _ .”

He doesn’t say, I can’t trust them. He doesn’t say, because who they’re based on tore my friends apart. Tortured each other and tortured their Agents and anyone else unlucky enough to end up in their path. They look like them, sound like them, act like them, and I can’t let that go, because I can’t let that happen again, because if it happened to you--

Tucker looks away. He gets it, of  _ course _ he get’s it, it’s just all knotted up in a ball of unfairness in his head and--

“It just isn’t  _ fair. _ They didn't even do anything, stuff just happened, and now they’re here!” he explodes. “Epsilon didn’t ask if they wanted to be brought back-- they didn't ask for this to happen!”

“I know-- No, wait,” Wash shakes his head, waving a hand like he can wipe away this whole conversation. “This isn’t what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“This isn’t what any of us wanted!” Tucker snarls. “I wanted to punch out the creepy bald white guy, fuck up his shit, and bring home all my friends-- I wanted all this bullshit to be  _ over _ after we stopped their stupid plan so I could-- so we could just get a chance to  _ relax _ . For  _ once _ .”

And the words keep coming, unstoppable, pouring out. Tucker’s blood rushes in his ears and he was never any good at slowing down once he got started. At stopping and turning back once he got a good anger built up. 

“I thought after all this was over things were going to calm down! Rebuilding was supposed to be the easy part, but turns out it all just fucking sucks!”

“Wait,” Wash tries to interrupt, “Let me--”

“I didn't want my friend to die! I didn’t want everyone to stare at me all the time like I’m going to go Terminator on their ass! This whole thing is total bullshit! For everybody! But especially for them!,” he shouts, pointing vaguely in the direction of the AI server building. “Because the rest of us, we decided not to just fly away, we decided to go up to that ship alone, but they didn’t get to decide anything!”

“Tucker--”

“This isn’t what they wanted! They didn’t get a choice! No one asked them!” Tucker yells. “Church just went and offed himself, and left them behind to pick up the pieces and now they have to live with the fallout!  _ Stop looking at me like that!” _

“Tucker,” Wash says weakly. His hands are spread in front of him, like Tucker saw them the other day when Wash was trying to catch one of the feral cats by their housing block. “I have my helmet on. You can’t tell how I’m--”

“Bullshit.” He can feel the fight draining out of him, shakes his head viciously. “Bullshit.”

He grasps to keep hold of his anger, but it drains away, leaving him heavy and empty (like everything does these days. Heavy and empty). He clenches and unclenches his fists, clenches and unclenches his jaw. Blinks. Blinks again. Squeezes his eyes so tight they hurt, then forces them open despite the sting. 

How is it possible he feels like he’s sinking and floating away at the same time?

“This is all such bullshit.”

He keeps staring at Wash’s hands. Fingers spread. He knows he has freckles on his knuckles, how strong his palms look. The way he moves his wrists has always whispered (and shouted and taunted) sex to him. Wash has great hands. 

They’d looked so sure, so strong, so careful. Trying to catch that cat, a feral juvenile, so skinny and mean it was probably pictured in the dictionary under “scrappy.” The one with the fucked up leg Wash insisted needed vet care, and of course he tried to catch it. He tried to make a pet carrier out of an old ammo crate. Tucker doesn't remember asking if he ever caught it. 

“--cker.  _ Tucker.” _

Tucker blinks. It sounds like Wash had been calling his name for awhile. He’s closer now, close enough to reach out for, for Tucker’s arm.

“...What?”

“Tucker,” Wash says, helmet tilted in concern. His voice is infuriatingly gentle. “Are you okay?”

Tucker stares at Wash’s hand, half-outstretched towards him and tries to figure out how to answer.

He can picture the way those hands, those strong, dangerous hands, had cupped around that skinny little cat. Armored fingers that could dent doorknobs and hurl knives so hard the  _ hilt _ had to be dug out of the wall, but they were so careful as they scooped around that tiny cat and---

He remembers Wash’s hands on his jaw, his neck. Cupping his face. He was burning so bad it was just pain now, cooking from the inside and Wash’s fingertips were cool. He had screamed when the cold rags had been pressed to his neck, but Wash had held on. 

Wash feels so far away now. 

“Did you ever catch that cat?” Tucker asks. He hears his own voice as if from a distance.

“What? I don’t--Never mind. Listen...” Wash reaches up and levers off his helmet one handed. He scrubs his face with the other, blinking in the fading light. The purple and orange of sunset on Chorus throws all of the shadows and angles of his armor into stark relief, but his face harbors no such shadows right now, just open determination.  “Listen, I need to tell you something.”

Tucker sees Wash’s mouth set in that unhappy line, hears those words-- and he wants to bolt. Wash must see it on him because he reaches out and snags Tucker’s wrist, thumb and index finger cinched tight around him, secure. 

“Tucker,” he says, before Tucker can jerk away or protest or anything at all. “You don’t owe them anything.”

It takes a beat for him to realize that what Wash said wasn’t  _ I’m leaving _ . And then to process the words he  _ had _ said. 

“They only  _ saved my life,  _ saved  _ all _ of our lives!” he protests.

“Yeah, they did,” Wash says, cutting him off. “But--”

“So from where I’m sitting, I owe them an awful lot, if it weren’t for them we would all--”

““No!” Wash cuts him off, “No, I mean…”

He sighs, runs a clawed hand through his hair. His eyes flick around, checking exits before settling back on Tucker, so gray and serious and steadier than they have any right to be.

“Tucker,” he says. “It’s not your fault. What Epsilon did.”

The angry words die in Tucker’s throat. His heart dies in his chest. The world dies around him, going silent and far away. Wash doesn’t break his gaze. 

“It’s not your job to fix them. Or...fix it  _ for _ them. Fix what happened.”

Tucker swallows. He can’t look away. Even though he knows Wash wouldn’t be able to tell if he looked away, closed his eyes, veiled behind his faceplate, but he can’t even  _ blink _ .

The silence stretches between them, until Tucker manages to find some of his words.

“.... I should have known. I could have done something.”

Wash shakes his head.

“How?” he says. “None of us could have suspected… It’s not your fault.”

A breath shakes in and out of Tucker’s lungs. And again. And again.  

“He trusted I wouldn't fuck it up,” he says. Church’s message had said so. After. “That I wouldn't get too fucked up by it, or shut down, or get everyone killed. He trusted me to handle it.”

“But he still did it,” Wash says. “Epsilon would have done it, no matter whose armor he was riding.”

“It’s not the fragments’ fault either,” Tucker insists. “They didn’t ask for this, they just got thrown into it--”

“But so did you.”

Wash is so close and still holding his wrist. Practically holding his hand now. Tucker’s breath keeps shaking into the air between them. Every breath feels like a small win, one more rep in a set towards not freaking out. Breathe. Breathe. Listen to Wash. 

“Tucker. I thought it was my job, my  _ duty _ , to take down the Project. I let it, I  _ made _ it my whole life, my reason to keep going,” Wash says. “I thought that I… because they were dead and I wasn’t. I thought I could make up for it. For not doing something when I could have. For surviving.

“And I know he didn’t do to you what he…” Wash struggles for a moment, grip tightening on his hand again and Tucker squeezes back before he can think about why. “What he did to me. I know it’s not the same.”

“Shit, man, you don’t have to talk about this,” Tucker says, jerking away as if out of a trance. “I’ll find someone else to go be fucked up at--”

Wash’s grip on his tightens until it's painful.

“I don't  _ want _ you to go be fucked up at someone else.” Wash says, firm. Firm as ten laps around the canyon, firm as  _ I am going to break you, Private Tucker _ . Except he doesn’t sound like he wants to break him now. 

Tucker stops pulling away, and slowly, Wash loosens his hold. But he doesn’t let go. Tucker doesn’t need to (doesn’t want to) test his grip. Wash will keep holding on.

“After. I thought I was alone and that I had to be responsible for everything that happened,” Wash continues. “I didn’t have anyone. But you…”

He takes a step closer, closing the distance between them. God, all Tucker would have to do is lean in. The air between them charged, filled with something more than oxygen. 

“I want to help,” Wash says. “If you can let me.”

Tucker doesn’t need a moment to consider. This time Wash doesn’t resist when Tucker pulls his hand away, even if his eyes try to hide the flash of disappointment. Tucker fumbles the catches of his helmet as he takes it off. He feels like a raw nerve, exposed and stinging, but. But Wash did it for him. Honest and open. It’s another few heartbeats before he can bring himself to meet Wash’s eyes. 

And nod.

It happens slowly. Wash folds his arms around him like a flower closing. Or like a bird learning how to land. Awkward. But when he finally does, he holds on tight. Tucker’s face is mashed into the armor plating of his shoulder right above the chestplate, his forehead pressed to Wash's neck. Uncomfortable in more ways than one, but Tucker wants it too much to care. Wash holds on like he isn't used to hugs; too hard. 

(Tucker is so tired. He can't even summon up the energy to tack his favorite phrase on the end of that.) 

Tucker takes a deep breath and presses his face against Wash. It makes it easier. 

“He didn't even say anything,” he whispers. “He just…”

“No one blames you,” Wash says into the top of his head. Tucker can feel his chest expand and contract under his cheek. “ _ I _ don’t blame you.”

Tucker wants to ask about Carolina but his throat has fused shut and this time it's all him.

He adjusts his arms just enough that he can get them around Wash too. He holds on too hard too.

He thinks, he needs too hard right now.

“I’m not very good at this,” Wash admits. “But. I. Thought. If I can-”

“Just try,” Tucker finishes with him. Echoes. 

It all rises in him, every rotten thing that's been making him sick to his stomach and sick in the head and sick in his heart. 

“He was just  _ gone.” _

For good this time.

Wash grips him tight in the onslaught, and Tucker grasps for words against the storm- if he doesn't say them now, he’s not sure he ever will, and if there's anything he owes Wash, honesty about this of all things is just the beginning.

“Caboose,” he starts.

“Will be okay,” Wash finishes.

Tucker takes a deep breath. He can’t even think of an ending to any sentence beginning with Carolina, so he lets that one pass for later.

“You and Epsilon,” he whispers. “You never got to talk…”

“That’s not your fault either,” Wash says. His stubble rasps against Tucker’s temple. Tucker shifts so he can feel it again.

“Wash?” he whispers. “I think… I think I’m tired.”

Wash keeps holding him and Tucker finally, finally lets himself relax against him.

They stay like that. Tucker isn't sure how long.

When Wash pulls away he doesn't let go and Tucker is pathetically grateful for that. He leads Tucker away from the deserted quad, back toward the officer’s housing. The street lights have come on. The sky is lavender and indigo, glowing faintly on the horizon. A waft of evening chill caresses his face and Tucker closes his eyes to feel it better, lets Wash lead on. They must be taking the more little-used alleyways and side streets, he thinks. He doesn't feel any eyes on him at all. But to be fair, he isn’t exactly paying attention. He’s very tired. 

Wash keeps touching him, hand on his shoulder, his elbow, his hip, guiding him.

It reminds him of Before, on the Staff of Charon. His arm over Wash’s shoulder as Wash dragged them both to the waiting Pelican, Tucker mostly failing to help and it was hot, every step seared into his skin but he didn't have the breath to scream. He didn’t know how long it had been since Delta offlined himself, since the environmental controls failed, the armor heating up out of control. He could barely see from the sweat in his eyes, Wash cajoling and pushing him in the right direction. Batting his hands away whenever he tried to stop and get his own armor off. 

“Easy there,” Wash’s voice close by. “We can’t do that yet, we’re not clear yet. There could be more of them. Wait until we’re in the Pelican, okay?”

Air on his face in the Pelican, but all he could feel was the heat and the pain, the feel of liquid dripping down his nose. Cool fingers cupping his jaw, Wash’s voice low and urgent and horrified.

“Oh,  _ god, Tucker _ , how long--” and then a shout. “Someone help me with him!”

Motion and noise. Hands grabbing at him and his armor, and the pain sharpened. Dr. Grey yelling. Far away. The Kevlar stripped away and hands on his skin that  **hurt** and he knew he was screaming by the feel of it in his throat. 

He had sunk in and out of consciousness, in and out of pain, in and out of knowing his own name after that, but Wash’s touch had stayed with him the whole time. He’s sure of that. 

His voice in his ear.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, just stay awake, okay, stay with us. We’ll get you cooled down, fuck, I’m sorry, just hold on. I’ve got you. I’ve got you, Tucker, just stay--”

He’s certain.

He doesn't really remember the ride home. He doesn't remember seizing, twice. And once more once they got to medical. They explained later, once he woke up.  _ Hyperthermia. Heat stroke. Organ failure. You could have died. Second-degree burns.  _

_ Dr. Grey’s soft touch on the back of his hand. _

_ “Wash stayed with you the whole ride back.” _

Tucker only realizes when the light flips on that they’re in Wash’s room. 

It’s neat, of course it's neat. Just as neat and orderly as every other time he’s been here, during all those Blue Team Sleepovers Caboose had insisted on after the Fed and New armies integrated. Sparse and clean, a far better choice than Caboose’s room with its stray crayons and socks everywhere, or Tucker’s where he was sleeping naked (it was  _ his goddamn room) _ . All three of them bunked down on the floor like they were camping, Caboose telling stories until the idiot babbled himself to sleep. Tucker had always steered Caboose toward the middle, the better to avoid waking up grinding against whatever part of Wash was nearest during team bonding time. 

He hasn’t seen the inside of this room since before the trip to Santa’s temple. 

Wash sets his helmet and gloves on the footlocker and crosses to the bed. Tucker can't get a good look at his face from this angle. He opens his mouth to ask, well, he was going to start with  _ why _ and work up from there. Then Wash clears his throat.

“After Epsilon, and the crash….” He fluffs the pillow,a jerky unsure movement. “It was hard. I would wake up alone and there was no one there. Even--” he makes a motion towards his head. “And then I would remember. That there wasn't anyone there. That they weren't coming back.”

It’s probably the most he has ever heard Wash talk about Epsilon, about what Epsilon did to his head, at one time. At least, willingly. Tucker closes his mouth. 

“It was hard, waking up alone. Being alone,” Wash continues. “No. It was awful. I just wanted...Maybe if I’d had someone there, or someone to go to…”

He shrugs.

“I only have one pillow,” he says. “Sorry.”

Tucker stares. He’s not quite sure exactly what Wash just said, or what he meant by it, but one part of it he’s pretty sure of. He crosses his arms over his chest. 

This isn't how he pictured (fantasized about) getting into Wash’s bed. 

“Wash, I’m not taking your bed,” he says. “There’s not even carpet in here--”

“I’m not sleeping on the floor, Tucker,” Wash interrupts. The curve of his mouth hitches up in a soft sheepish smile. “I’m just offering.” 

Wash shrugs.

“I only have one pillow.”

Tucker blinks at him, dumbfounded. So if he’s not sleeping on the floor or giving up his bed, but still clearly offering-

Oh. 

The curve of Wash’s smile climbs further up.

“Finally get there?”

Tucker fakes a noncommittal shrug and takes a step toward the bed.

“Yeah. Okay.”

Wash helps him unlatch his armor, leaves him to struggle out of the undersuit by himself. A pair of sleep pants hit him in the face while he’s trying to get the thing down over his hips.

“Non-negotiable,” Wash’s voice says, chuckling. “You want a shirt?”

“Nah,” Tucker says. 

By the time he’s gotten out of his survival suit and into the sleep pants, Wash is already armored down and pj-ed up like some kind of magic. 

He lets Tucker climb in first. Flips off the light as he climbs in after. His bed is pushed against the wall (because of course it is) which means by climbing in second he very deliberately places himself between Tucker and any potential threats coming through the door (because of course he does). They shuffle, figuring out how they both fit on the skinny bunk, limbs arranged carefully to avoid excess touching. Awkward. No way to completely avoid it, and really Tucker’s pretty sure neither of them actually mind. Just trying too hard not to freak each other out. 

He’s too worn out (emotions are exhausting) right now, but there's no way he's making it to morning without at least one half-chub. Wash’s  _ thighs  _ are under the same blanket as his, and sooner or later his libido is gonna start thinking seriously about that. He can feel the flush of Wash’s body heat all the way from his collarbones to calves. 

There is only one pillow so they have to press in close, too close. Both of them curled in on their sides, facing each other. Intimate. That's the only word for how this feels, their knees just brushing, Wash’s gray eyes on his in the dark.

“You know this is super melodramatic, right?” Tucker says, but his voice is hushed, like he’s trying not to wake someone, or something between them.

Wash huffs. Tucker can feel it against his face.

“Only way I know how,” he says, wry. 

He seems to struggle with himself for a minute. He shifts, bringing his arm up from where it’s been resting at his side. Slowly, like he’s afraid of startling him. Or himself. 

Tucker watches until the last moment before Wash makes contact with his skin, the back of his knuckles brushing his cheek. Tucker closes his eyes and becomes just that touch, just stays in that moment, in that spot, lets it sweep everything else away.

Together, they are quiet. His mind and gut settle. (It really is all going to be okay.)

In the dark together, they keep breathing.

“Your fingertips are cold.”

“They are,” Wash says. “They almost always are.”

He strokes across Tucker’s cheek, again and again. Tucker sighs and lets himself drift. Surprises himself when his mind manages to stay right here. Mostly. 

“On the ship,” Tucker says. “When you got my helmet off.”

Wash stills.

“I’m sorry I didn’t realize what was wrong sooner,” he says, so quiet Tucker can barely hear. “I should have--”

Tucker opens his eyes and shakes his head. Wash falls silent. He tilts his head into Wash’s hand.

“Your fingers were cold then, too.”

Wash’s thumb slides across his cheek. Tucker closes his eyes. 

“It felt nice.”

He feels more than sees Wash shift. 

All that waiting. All that hovering, all that lingering for the other shoe to drop. For the Moment, for the Right Time.

Tucker doesn’t know if it’s the Right Time, but Wash’s knee presses against his, his palm is cupping his cheek and Wash’s bottom lip is chapped and scratchy, but the touch of his mouth against Tucker’s is soft and sincere. 

He kisses back, of course. And it isn’t sexy at all-- it’s worse, it‘s  _ intimate _ . He is warm, the blankets piled around his shoulders and comfortable and quiet and Wash is here. Finally. 

The kiss ends, but they don't pull away.

Wash keeps his hand there until Tucker’s breath is slow and Wash’s fingertips are warm.


End file.
